


Benediction

by misbegotten



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Getting Together, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8214013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: St. Teresa, John Donne, and Roy Orbison walk into a bar... (or, James dreams of what might be).





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/gifts).



> It took me sixteen works to get to the smut. Tally ho! For P+P, for egging me on. Forgive any egregious errors; it's been a terrible week thus far and this is my solace.

Dreamwalking is a recorded phenomenon. If one chooses to believe it, of course. James knows the thin line that displaces the religious from the occult, and certainly psychic projections of the self are no stranger to faith. In the work of the more mundane fields of lucid dreams, Belanger's book on dreamwalking has some insight (though the prominent display on the cover of Belanger as author of the unfortunately named _Psychic Vampire Codex_ had led James to slip a different jacket over the work). She asserts that there is little written material on dreamwalking, but James suspects she prefers to overlook the fact that out of body experiences are rampant in religious writings. St. Teresa's ecstasy is not easily dismissed as hyperbole. _The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it._

Donne is more literal (though is anything really more literal than Teresa's golden spear? Perhaps not.) in "The Good Morrow": 

_If ever any beauty I did see,  
Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee._

But Roy Orbison put it even more plainly: _In dreams you're mine._ James likes the directness of Orbison. And the fact that through seven movements, the artist never repeats himself. 

James, however, does. In dreams, Robbie is not dozing lightly next to him on the end of the couch, the remains of takeaway scattered on the table and the telly all but muted because it has been another trying, nearly soul-shattering case.

In dreams, Robbie is awake when James splays his fingers across Robbie's thigh. The fabric of Robbie's trousers gives to his touch, so James may feel the weight of solid muscle beneath and can imagine the taut stretch of sinew that would be Robbie bare to him, pushing into him, taking him.

But that's too far, too fast, even in the makeshift fantasy of James' dreams. They would start slowly -- of course they would, because even if dream Robbie is eager to taste James, to lick into the musky scent that trails from coarse hair to the leaking tip of his willing dick, Robbie is also tentative. As if he might hurt James, physically. As if James is not more than ready to be manhandled (oh, literally, the word bites into his subconscious and stirs his cock), but Robbie is careful not to tread too quickly into the unfamiliar territory of another man's tackle.

Dream Robbie grins at the word tackle, and surprises James by enveloping him into a kind of rough hug that would surely have left a mark on someone as slight as Val seems to have been. Perhaps dream Robbie is not as virgin (oh, subconscious!) as James thinks when it comes to exploring the byways of the male form. Where, after all, has Robbie learned to grind his hip into James' groin with just enough pressure to stimulate, not leave his partner (subconscious, he groans) rolling in agony. No, it's agony of an entirely different kind, and dream Robbie is removing James' already loose tie and not too delicately undoing his flies at the same time, which gives James the heady dual pleasure of being both freed from and trapped by his armour of "slightly too posh for a copper" clothing.

And then dream Robbie's hand is on his cock, pinching the tip ever so lightly, playfully, and James lets out an indecent groan as he strains forward into Robbie's grasp. "Yes," he tries to say, but Robbie's lips are on his and the word comes out as muffled incoherence. "God yes," James tries again, blasphemy coming quickly on the heels of ecstasy (Teresa may have been a nun, but she knew the tremulous pleasure of the caress of love), and it is embarrassing to James how quickly he is hard and leaking onto Robbie's fingers. But dream Robbie merely makes a pleased sound at the lubricant, rough and gentle at the same time as he twists at the head of James' cock, then down to the root, then back again. James' hips lunge, chasing the path of Robbie's touch, and then they are locked in that eternal rhythm that marks lovers in sync, the one concentrating on the pleasure of the other and -- James realises with utter awe and delight -- getting off on it even without mutual touch. The thought makes his brain stutter, and then his body quickly follows and he is coming across the calloused edge of dream Robbie's hand.

When dream Robbie brings the hand to his own lips and tastes, James nearly comes again. 

His clothes are a mess, but dream Robbie merely chuckles and murmurs something about dry cleaning costs not being reimbursable. Because of course Robbie, in James' dream, is comfortable enough to grant James the boon of that slightly crooked smile. James knows all the quirks of Robbie's lips, from the pursed frustration of analysing alibis and motives to the satisfied smack after the first draught of frothy ale. But suddenly James realises that there is something different here, something he's never seen before in that look and it overwhelms him when he pegs it as desire. Accepted desire, not a hooded glance but naked ( _subconscious!_ ), complete surrender to it. And James comes undone at that.

He rouses with a start, the uncomfortable press of his erection tight against trousers that he's already worn too long today, and notes that Robbie is stirring, stifling a yawn and holding in the tension of an expansive stretch of tired arms. 

"Sorry to nod off on you like that, lad," Robbie says, his voice still slightly slurred by sleep. 

"It was a long day," James acknowledges with a dip of his head, and wonders how long he can stall until his unfortunate situation in the groin region resolves itself into its usual -- but at least unnoticeable -- simmering frustration.

Robbie leans his head back, neck cracking against too tight knots, and lets forth the yawn he has been holding back. "Had a dream," he says thoughtfully, rubbing a hand across the obviously tensed muscles of his neck.

 _A dream of thee_ , James thinks with a pang, guilt almost subsuming him. He knows better than to project his fantasies onto Robbie. There's no comfort to be had there, no solace in acknowledgment much less acceptance.

"I guess I was dreaming too," James replies, drawing out the moment as long as possible. A pillow would be handy about now, or the drape of his suit jacket across his traitorous lap, but the latter is across the room and presumably mocking him for letting loose his fantasies in dreams. Can clothing be spiteful? Certainly it can make a statement. James will never forget, after all, his first glimpse of Robbie in that horrid tropical shirt and his own accompanying, well-hidden astonishment as he wondered what he was getting himself into. If only he'd known. 

"Aye," Robbie says. "I guess you were." And puts his hand of James' thigh. The fabric of James' treacherous trousers gives to his touch, so James can feel the solid weight of Robbie's palm on his body. "Talking in your sleep, I reckon. About some woman named Teresa. Have I met her?"

Oh good Lord, James thinks. "No," he manages. "Teresa… Bernini. Old friend from school. Exchange student." Mystical, randy nun plaguing his subconscious. "That's odd," he says desperately, aiming for casual.

"Ah," Robbie nods thoughtfully. His hand is still on James' thigh. "I'm quite sure the name was Avila, actually. I have read a book, now and again."

Dream Robbie is playful; actual Robbie looks quite serious. 

"Why have you not said anything?"

James wants nothing more than to crawl underneath the sofa. "It wouldn't be…" he scrambles for a life preserver. "Proper."

"Proper," Robbie repeats doubtfully. "I guess I can see that. Innocent would have a fit, it's true. A DI taking advantage of his sergeant."

"A DI--" James echoes, his own voice dim against the rush of thoughts cascading across his senses. "How could _you_ take advantage of me?"

Robbie's hand slides up James' thigh just slightly. "I'd be taking advantage of your feelings, you idiot." The hand slides a bit more. "And perhaps your body too. If you were willing."

Actual Robbie has the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes. The line between dream Robbie and actual Robbie is utterly blurred at this point. James is well and truly fucked.

"Aye," he says deliberately, adopting just a bit of Robbie's lilt. "I'm willing."

"Then let's stop wasting time," Robbie says, and covers James' lips with his.

 _"Everything is all right,"_ Orbison croons somewhere in the back of James' head.

And, to his surprise, it is. Bless his dreams, he thinks. And let him be blessed by Robbie, because the touch of Robbie's lips on his is benediction.

**Author's Note:**

> Belanger's books are real, but I haven't done more than glance at them. My apologies for shanghaiing them for my own smutty purposes.


End file.
